


Contemplating the Roof

by Galan



Category: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Gen, Phobias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galan/pseuds/Galan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a short one-shot set during "Market For Murder". What was going through Troy's head when he had to go up on the roof after Lady Chetwood's death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contemplating the Roof

**Contemplating the Roof**

Well he could hardly say no, could he? _“No, sir, I'm sure you don't need my help on the roof. I'll just stay down here if you don't mind.”_ He didn't need to speak the words to hear how ridiculous they were. Even with his fingers on the bannister, Troy was trembling, almost dizzy with the fear— No, no, it was just the staircase's turns, sharp and frequent as it climbed. Who wouldn't be dizzy, going round and round in circles, higher and higher and higher? He shuddered, struggling to ignore the queasiness in his stomach.

Unlike the rest of Chetwood House, the steps appeared solid but each one creaked and his pulse quickened with every groan of wood. And now, when a shoe elicited a particularly loud complaint, Troy clenched the bannister so violently the muscles in his arm tightened from his wrist to his elbow.

“What _is_ the matter?” Barnaby snapped, the words muffled as they echoed a couple flights of stairs above Troy's head. Heavy footsteps rang out as the chief inspector doubled back, now staring at him through the slats in the railing. Barnaby had ascended the staircase with no worries, his mind consumed by the new development in the murders at Midsomer Market. Perhaps he had forgotten where the stairs led?

“Uh—nothing, sir,” Troy managed, prying his rigid fingers away from wood. His palm was damp and the inside of his forearm ached. The toe of his shoe caught the edge of the next step and he pitched forward, clasping the bannister once more.

“Troy!” Barnaby was no longer just staring, but wore a glare as well.

He inhaled deeply, trying to forget what awaited him at the top of the staircase. “Yes, sir.”

Every step was agony, each one he took forcing him farther away from the solid earth toward the sunlight pouring through the open door at the top of the stairwell. And when he crossed the threshold into the open air, his vision swam. The stone was worn and cracked, innumerable shingles on the gables missing to reveal gaping holes. Just one poorly placed foot...God, he couldn't breathe now!

Troy clutched the small turret as he took the last stone steps, Barnaby finally in his sight again. The man stood at the roof's edge, leaning forward and peering at the ground—without concern. Like there was no danger, that the stone could not possibly collapse from centuries of wear or crumble from a gust of wind.

SOCO had already examined the scene thoroughly and returned safely—but why take the risk? _What is wrong with people?_ thought Troy, his mouth already parched, his pace slowing as he neared the chief inspector, the tops of the trees that surrounded the estate blurring into a single mass. _This is the most dangerous spot in the house._ And the trees: they were even worse, bloody risky things to climb—

“Hell of a fall,” Barnaby said, standing straight again, “going down from this high.” Finally showing some sense, Troy decided—until Barnaby bent forward again.

“Yes—sir,” Troy stammered, his hand still quivering, needing something to hold as he approached the edge, forcing himself to look down. The gravel drive was miles away, like the roots of those trees—

“This is where she went over?” Barnaby asked, leaning out further still.

“Yeah.” Troy couldn't touch the stone, not when it had already cracked and failed Lady Chetwood. _We could die any second!_ On this roof, nowhere was safe—but how treacherous would the descent be? “And,” he started again, his breathing shallow, “uh, Lord Chetwood was right underneath with a group of tourists...Um, they certainly got their money's worth.” Troy wanted to look over his shoulder to the door to be certain it was still there, still open, grey and filled with shadows, narrow and steep... _Oh, god..._

Barnaby was still leaning forward, now turning his head to look back to the stairs—the only way out. “If someone came up here and _pushed_ Lady Chetwood off the roof,” he said slowly, “they could've got back down those stairs—got out the back of the house—without anyone seeing them.”

“Pushed her?” Troy stammered, tucking his hands in his pocket. They were still shaking—and now he pulled them out again, casting his arms here and there, desperate to hide the tremors. “Surely she just fell. I mean—look at it, sir. It's incredibly dangerous. I mean—the whole lot looks as if it could just—come down at any minute!”

The chief inspector looked at him: curious, almost concerned. “You all right?” he asked quietly.

Troy let out a deep breath as words refused to come. He finally reached out with a hand to steady himself—touching that ancient, crumbling stone—ready to pitch forward, hurdle toward the ground...And it didn't give way. Yet.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for the LiveJournal 100 Situations Challenge.


End file.
